by Monroe, Max
Me: That’s because the hydration is supposed to make you feel better AFTER you get drunk, silly. ;)
Maybe: You’re pushy as hell, but I have to admit, I miss you. I’m ECSTATIC that you’re coming home in September instead of December. Prepare yourself to be inundated with wedding tasks.
I smile at her words. While my time in Milan was supposed to last for an entire year, I managed to snag an internship with an Italian fashion designer who is opening a studio in New York.
Loro Gianni is eccentric, insane, but a fucking fashion genius. And, thankfully, he talked the dean into letting me complete my three-month internship with him in New York—my always and forever home.
Hell, if I’m being honest, Maybe and her fiancé Milo Ives’s wedding is one of the main reasons I did everything I could to relocate my internship.
Otherwise, I would’ve only had time to fly in for the wedding itself.
But now, I’ll be there for the bridal showers, the joint bachelor and bachelorette parties…pretty much everything.
The mere thought makes me giddy.
Me: God, I miss you too!!!! And I can’t wait to get the wedding celebrations started!!! I’d feel like an asshole of a maid of honor if I weren’t there for all the events.
Maybe: You know I would’ve understood.
Me: Yeah, but then I would have gotten emotional at the wedding and objected when Milo was saying his vows.
Maybe: OBJECTED?!
Me: Well, you know. Not to the actual marriage. Just to the wedding planning happening without me… So, it’s probably good I’m coming home. Saves you a lot of heartache in the end.
Maybe: HAHA. I’m worried Italy has hardened you.
Me: Well, I did say I haven’t had sex in nine months. That would harden anyone.
Maybe: LOL. Touché, friend.
Me: All right, you non-hussy, I need to go shake my ass at this kick-ass Italian nightclub and maybe, perhaps, possibly end my nine-month dry spell. But I’ll see you in a few weeks! Love you!
Maybe: Love you too!! Have fun and BE SAFE!
My phone back in my pocket after a text exchange much longer than intended, I scan the crowded space to find I’ve been left behind. Apparently unbothered by my slow, distracted walk, Pippa is closing in on the bar. A woman on a mission, she weaves in and out of the crowd, bumping into strangers without apology and bestowing the lovely blessing of a stiff-arm on a couple mid-kiss.
I politely skirt around dancers and clubgoers until I slip in between two very tall men and step up beside her.
“You in a bit of a hurry?” I ask, and she grins.
“This place is packed, and you were on your phone.” She shrugs. “I saw an opening, so I took it.”
“You mean you made an opening. I watched you break through that couple with moves Sean Phillips would be proud of.”
She laughs and bites her lip before tilting her head to her shoulder. “I have no idea who Sean Phillips is or what you’re talking about, but I already ordered us some drinks.”
“Remind me to never get in the way of you when you want to lose your inhibitions,” I remark dryly. “And Sean Phillips is a football player on the New York Mavericks.”
She rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. “American football, bleh.”
“What did you ord—” I start to ask but stop when a handsome bartender with dark brown eyes slides shot glasses our way.
“Start a tab for me.” Pippa hands him her card, and I quirk a brow.
“For someone who never ever drinks, you seem to know your way around the bar.”
“I saw it in a movie with Brad Pitt once.”
I laugh at that. Saw it in a movie. She’s using Brad Pitt’s acting chops as real-world life lessons. Which only reminds me why we’re friends. She’s flipping adorable, and I’m a sucker for adorable.
I move my eyes to the counter and take inventory of what she ordered while the bartender starts a tab. One…two…three…four…five…
“Why are there six shots of tequila?”
“Because they’re so tiny. I watched someone down the bar order a tray full. I figured we’d each need at least three.”
“Pippa, honey—” Before I can finish what I’m saying, she lifts a shot glass and downs one. “Wait…you shouldn’t—” And then another.
Ah fuck.
Her face scrunches up in disgust. “Ugh. I think their tequila is bad or something.”
“Have you ever had tequila? Or any alcohol, for that matter?”
“No, not really.”
“Not even a sip of wine on Christmas or a glass of champagne at a wedding?”
She shakes her head.
Oh boy.
“My face feels numb. Is that normal?” she asks, just before pinching her nose and slugging back the third shot.
“Considering you’ve never had alcohol and just downed three shots of tequila like some kind of badass bitch, yeah, I think it’s safe to say that soon you’re not going to be able to feel your face at all.”
“So, tequila is strong?”
I nod my head slowly. “Uh-huh.”
“But those are so tiny, Lena. Surely, I can handle a few more.” She starts to lift her hand toward the bartender, but I reach up to stop its ascent.
“How about we go dance this off a bit before any more drinks are ordered?”
She nods toward my still-full shot glasses. “Pretty sure you need to drink your shots first, you wanker.”
Ugh. I hate tequila—the smell, the taste, and the burn it leaves in my throat after I’m done. But there’s no way I am going to leave my bubbly—and soon-to-be very drunk—English friend on her own, and I’m not going to leave these here for her to drink herself either.
That really only leaves me one option: woman the fuck up and down the shots.
One. Two. Three, down the fucking hatch. They leave absolutely no doubt as to why I hate tequila.
“Good Lord,” I mutter and look around for some salt and lime, only to come up empty-handed. “You didn’t get any limes with it?”
Pippa shakes her head. “I told him we didn’t need any.”
“I think you’re the only human being alive who can become an alcoholic on her first night of drinking.”
She rolls her eyes. “They weren’t that bad, Lena.”
“It might as well have been gasoline.”
“Stop being such a bloody pussy!” she shouts, grabs my arm, and starts dragging me to the center of the room. “It’s time to dance!”
Note to self: Keep an eye on Pippa tonight.
Two hours and another two shots for Pippa later and she’s in full-on dance mode. Shaking her hips and tits like she owns the joint. It only took one intense shimmy during “Gonna Make You Sweat” to understand what she meant—her boobs, left braless, would absolutely be a lethal weapon. I’m pretty sure the sweat between them even vaporized into a misty Mel Gibson mirage, they shook so hard.
And not once has she wanted to stop for a break.
She’s in the running to be the next Energizer bunny, but my bladder is full, and I’m dehydrated. For the love of God, I need something to drink other than Mel-flavored sweat mist and gasoline.
Thankfully, when Pip spots Sophie and Frederick on the other side of the dance floor, she does some weird version of the robot, spins in their direction, and makes like the wind through the crowd while letting her arms trail behind her.
It’s so fucking strange, it’s hilarious, and I can’t help but laugh.
Sophie feels the same, covering her mouth comically as she spots Pippa. I wave my hand, hoping to get her attention, and by some miracle, she spots me through the strobing lights and writhing bodies.
I jerk my chin and swipe a hand across my chest before tapping the skin next to my eye and doing the walking symbol with my fingers. Sophie nods, interpreting my baseball-esque code, regardless of its lackluster delivery. If I were on the other end of things, I’d be waffling between second and third base right
now, trying to figure out what to do.
“I’ve got her!” she whisper-yells toward me, and the weight of drunken-friend-motherhood lifts off me in a flash. I’m sure my friends with kids would tell me this is how they always feel when they actually make it to the bathroom.
I didn’t think it was a possibility for a female living on planet Earth, but when I make it to the toilets—as the Italians call them—the line is short and speedy. I’m standing at the bar again, waiting on a bartender to take my order in under five minutes.
Of course, the bar takes so long, I have to sit down on one of the stools to bide my time. And just like that, the timetable of the universe has been righted.
While I wait, I glance back toward the dance floor to check on Pip, the dancing queen—who is now showing off her twerking skills to a cute twentysomething guy. If I had to guess based on his appearance, I’d peg him as one of the locals. But for all I really know, he hails from the Jersey Shore.
Thankfully, Sophie and Frederick are sticking close to Pip’s side, and her dance partner of unknown origin isn’t getting too handsy.
All is well. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn back toward the bar to resume my quest for a drink and, like magic, lock eyes directly with a bartender.
Thank God!
He jerks his chin up to head my way, and I climb to stand on the rung of my barstool with glee.
But when he’s five steps away, his attention swings back to a point down the bar, and immediately, he diverts.
What the hell?
I glance down at my perky, tight-nippled breasts and frown. How in the hell did he see these fuckers and not come in for the landing?
Annoyed, I follow him with my gaze to what I’m sure must be a woman with three tits and an exposed pussy.
I pause. Stop. Go completely still.
Wow. That is definitely not a woman with freakish anatomy. In fact, that’s no woman at all.
Midnight-blue eyes, a little scruff on his strong jaw, and the kind of lips that I instinctually know will be good at kissing, the man who stole my bartender warrants more than a double take.
Hot damn.
He’s clad in a smart suit but no tie, and his collared shirt is loose at the neck but perfectly fitted around the tight, firm muscles of his chest. The suit is obviously tailored and screams of money, but I have a feeling not even gold-plating would be able to disguise the spectacular body he’s got underneath.
His face is serious—but God, even serious, he is handsome as fuck.
The urge to find out what he looks like when he smiles is both overwhelming and terrifying. I mean, how would I even quantify anything beyond perfection?
A shiver runs up my spine. I really want to see what this guy is all about.
I imagine if I could remember Pippa existed at this point, I’d try to thank her for insisting I celebrate our accomplishments by lifting the man ban for the night.
As it is, I’m not sure anyone but me and the hottie with the sparkling eyes are left on the planet.
When he finishes talking to what I can only assume is the bartender who abandoned me, he turns back toward the dance floor and rests his hip against the bar.
His still-serious eyes scan the joint, moving from the dance floor to the VIP section to the intimate booths scattered along the walls and then back to the line of the bar, all the way back to me.
My breath catches in my throat when he meets my curious gaze and pauses.
Yes, please.
Drink forgotten, I mouth the word “Hi” toward him, and the slight hint of a smile threatens to quirk up just one corner of his lips.
God, I want to see him smile.
He mouths “Hi” back before pulling the center of his bottom lip between his teeth and dragging it back out. One perfect dimple pokes out from his cheek.
Hell’s bells, that’s one dangerously sexy look…
Unconsciously, I lick my bottom lip, and without hesitation, he shoves away from his spot at the bar and closes the distance between us.
“Hi,” I repeat when he stops within hearing distance—and in this club, with this crowd and noise, that’s pretty fucking close.
With full lips, white teeth, and two dimples, he smiles the sexiest smile I’ve seen in my life at the single-syllable word. And as a bonus, I can see now that his sparkling eyes are midnight blue, like the deepest part of the ocean.
“Hi,” he responds, rounding out our freak cycle of hellos, and it’s instantly evident he’s an American like me.
“You should do that more.”
He raises a questioning brow, leaning just one hand into the lighted marble bar top behind me. It makes his size feel impressive, makes me feel enveloped. My whole body spasms, and I take a deep breath to control it. “Do what more?”
“Smile,” I clarify.
A soft but deep and raspy chuckle leaves his perfect, kissable mouth. “Who says I don’t?”
I reach up toward the skin between his brows and his gaze follows my hand skeptically, but he doesn’t back away. “This little, almost nonexistent line right here,” I say softly, running a finger across it.
His eyes search mine in the kind of hot and sexy way that makes me wonder if my panties are still there, but I do my best to keep my voice even as I explain further. “I bet you furrow your brow all the time.”
He leans closer to me, and my fingers slide into the lush, dark locks of his hair on accident. “Is that right?”
“Uh-huh,” I answer simply, unable to form words until my hand finds its way back to the safe space of my lap. It’s purely circumstantial that my fingers graze his cheek and then his neck along the way. I clear my throat and look up to meet his eyes again. “I mean, here you are, in a club, at a bar with beautiful women all around you, and until you came over here, I couldn’t tell if you were having a good time at all.”
He laughs a little and then asks, “You know what’s funny?”
Completely oblivious to the answer but equally eager to find out, I shake my head.
“Neither could I.”
“And now?” I challenge with one inquisitive eyebrow.
“Now, I definitely am.”
I smile then, allowing a cascade of goose bumps to cover my arms from my shoulders to my fingertips.
Goddamn. He’s trouble, and I like it. In fact, I like it way too much.
“Well, in that case…” I pause and bite down on my bottom lip. “Since you stole my bartender, I think it’s only fair that you buy me a drink.”
He searches my eyes, a small smile once again lighting his own. “Stole your bartender?”
“Yep. Plucked him right from my braless grasp.”
He laughs again, shaking his head and fighting like hell not to look down. I’m immediately impressed by his level of self-control. Nine out of ten of the men I’ve been with in the past would have focused in on my buzzword and failed to look away from it for the rest of the night.
But not this guy. He’s interested—I can tell by the way his pupils have dilated—but for now, he’s content to focus on my eyes.
Irony at its finest, as that simple behavior actually increases his chances of seeing my nipples later.
“Okay, then. I guess I owe you one. What’s your poison?” That handsome grin of his grows wider, and I swear to God, I can feel it all the way to my damn toes.
Tell him gin and tonic because it will taste good when you get him to kiss you later, my horny, sex-deprived subconscious instructs.
The other side of my brain—the rational side—suggests something low in alcohol content—something that promotes good decisions.
I think it over for a brief moment, scanning the features of his too-handsome face and landing on his luscious smirking lips once again.
The answer pours out of me like a benediction. “Gin and tonic, please.”
Theo
With unruly blond curls, bright-blue eyes, and the kind of body that deserves a standing fucking ovation, this woman has my att
ention.
This isn’t usually a game I play, a game I even remotely have the time for while I’m observing the efficiency of one of my new clubs on its second night of opening. But there’s something about this beautiful, flirtatious, confident woman that has me doing everything I can to convince my mind that it can’t remember my normal rules.
“A gin and tonic?” I ask to confirm, searching the depths of her pretty blue eyes. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to find hidden in the meaning of her drink order, but I can only take it as a sign that I’m hungry for information.
Like maybe if I figure out more about her, perhaps I can pinpoint why she has me feeling so untethered.
“It’s my favorite drink.”
With a smile, I lean into the bar next to her—careful to avoid the electric touch of her smooth, tanned skin—and grab Sergio’s attention. He notices me and jerks up his chin before finishing up with the customer in front of him.
She hums deep in her throat, a mix between a laugh and a groan, and my cock jerks unexpectedly in my pants.
Fuck, get it together, Theo.
“So, it’s confirmed, then. You do have some kind of voodoo magic cast on the bartenders.”
I laugh at her assertion but avoid explaining my powers just yet. It’s not that I don’t want her to know I own the club; it just feels like the wrong time. “I’m Theo, by the way,” I say instead.
“Lena,” she returns, holding out a slender hand in the minimal space between us. Honestly, her arm is folded in an impressive showing of origami. It’s like an aluminum swan filled with takeout. Or a fancy seating card at a charity event.
But prettier.
The simple, awkwardly succinct gesture makes me smile yet again. So much so, I’m not even entirely sure I’ve given her name the focus it likely deserves, but there’ll be more time for that later.
I’m determined now to make sure of it.
When Sergio makes it over to us, I don’t wait for him to greet me before ordering our drinks.
